Page 24 of His Beloved Princess
"Would you like something to drink?" Electra asked, drifting her gaze to me. Her diplomatic expression made me snigger. She wasn't excited about his presence and interest, and a pleasant warmth spread from my stomach to my whole body. She was mine. I had nothing to worry about.
"Coffee for me, please," I said, sitting down, raising my eyebrows at my visitor. "Peter?"
"Nothing," he replied, his eyes not for a second leaving her face. "Thank you, darling."
"My name is Electra," she stated coldly, giving him a stern glare, and I smirked. "In case you forgot." She turned on her heels and walked out, leaving me in the office with a man who had been the biggest pain in the ass since I found out about him.
"What do you want?" I asked, leaning into my seat when he came closer. He called me a few days back, asking for a meeting, and I tried to avoid him, but eventually, I agreed. He was resilient, and I hoped he wasn’t in trouble again. One brother in jail was enough.
"A favor," he replied, his gaze fixed on me. His eyes were the same color as Fredy's, and I remembered praying to God that he also had a similar nature, but my wish was never heard.
I often thought that with all the stupid things he had done, he was only trying to get the attention that our father didn't give him. It was hard to say if I was right because one thing was for sure, and that was he was crazy during puberty, and the other was that, as a grown man, he wasn't any better.
"I told your mother that it was a one-time deal," I reminded him firmly, watching my beautiful princess, who had just entered the office, as she gracefully moved towards us. Peter was quiet while she set the coffee before me and started talking again only when she closed the door.
"I'm not asking you for money, Bastian," he stated, lowering his head. He looked like he was preparing for something unpleasant. I was stirring my hot concoction with a tiny spoon, studying him.
I knew about him much longer than my siblings. Since I was twelve years old, to be precise, and I wasn't very understanding about our father having another son. It felt like a horrible betrayal from my dad that he hid him from us. However, I wasn't stupid, and when Dad explained to me that Mom would be devastated and want to leave him, I played by his rules. It was our little secret, and I watched Pete from a distance as he was doing one foolish thing after another.
"Then, what do you need this time?" I asked, taking a deep, steady breath, preparing myself for another level of craziness.
Three months ago, I paid three million dollars in his name to a Russian mafia family because if I hadn't done it, he would be dead by now. His mother came to me, crying and almost begging me on her knees to help him. I just couldn't say no to a broken woman who loved her son so much that she forgot about her dignity and was prepared to do anything to save him.
But the deal was that it was the last thing I did for him. I didn't have the patience or the will to continue helping someone who was using me. I had a soft spot for my brothers, and even when I hated him, he was my sibling—my blood. It wasn't his fault that our dad stuck his dick in every woman who smiled at him.
"I need a job," Peter muttered, staring at his hands. I was so taken aback that I inhaled the hot coffee and coughed. The bitter liquid stung in my nose, and my lungs burned when I tried to get some oxygen into my body. He almost killed me with one statement, asshole.
"Are you okay?" Pete jumped to his feet, jogging around the table to help me. I felt tears in my eyes and had to blink rapidly to clear my vision.
"I'm fine," I grumbled, drinking some cold water. He gave me a doubtful look but returned to his seat, cautiously watching me.
"You want...a job?" I repeated the most shocking thing he ever said to me. He never worked. Our father gave him enough money to live a comfortable life, yet Peter and his idiotic actions cost a fortune. I knew he was penniless, but asking me for a job was something I would never have expected from him.
"I know about your people following me," he said, leaning into his seat. "But there are things you don't know. Things which I purposely hid from you and our dad as well."
"Why would you do that?" I asked, frowning at him. My men watched him because I didn't want to be surprised by Ukrainian or Russian killers on my doorstep. He could do whatever he wanted with his pathetic life, but I had a family to protect.
"Because you would have taken her away from me." He lowered his voice and avoided looking me in the eyes.
"Her?" My eyebrows shot up. I didn't have a clue what the hell he was talking about.
The uncomfortable silence settled between us. I noticed his breathing quickening; he was nervous and hesitated to explain. Well, our relationship wasn't the best, but I wasn't some heartless monster, and he knew me well enough to understand my decisions.
"I have a daughter," he disclosed after almost a minute, and I was glad that I wasn't sipping my coffee now because the result would be the same or worse as before. I would have probably choked with it this time.
"What?" I hissed, narrowing my eyes at him. I was sure I had heard him wrong.
"Her name is Layla, and I want full custody of her," he continued, ignoring my flabbergasted expression. So, obviously, he wasn't joking, but what the fuck?
"Wait, wait, wait." I raised my hand, stopping him from proceeding. I had to process one thing at a time. And I also made a mental note to ask my PI how it was possible that he didn't find out about my niece. "You went through all of that with the Russians while you had a child at home?"
"She was with her mother, but the situation has changed now," he replied, his face darkening and tears settling in his eyes.
"Changed how?" I knew I wouldn't like his next words, yet I had to ask. A huge piece of his life was missing, and I realized that maybe I didn't know my brother as well as I thought.
"Celeste died in a car accident three months ago," he whispered, and his voice broke. He ran his hand through his hair, staring at the table in front of him, probably lost in the memory of the woman he had a child with.
"I'm sorry, Pete," I said genuinely; my heart clenched, and I peered at my watch. It was early, but he looked like he could use a drink, and truth be told, I needed one, too. I stood, opening the cabinet where I stored an expensive bottle of whiskey. I poured us a generous amount of Hennessey and sat back, moving a glass to him. He didn't wait for me to say anything and drank it in a few quick gulps. He was devastated by the loss of that woman, whoever she was to him.
